


Symphony in Four Movements

by mika60



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universes, Angst, I will add more character tags because different characters will make cameos throughout each chapter, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mika60/pseuds/mika60
Summary: Their tale transcends through the unwritten melodies of history.





	1. Samarkand Overture

  
  
  
**Samarkand Overture**  
_329 B.C._

* * *

 

A scorching summer sun looms above vast plains, coated in shades of barren sierra that harshly rid the landscape of all opportunities at survival. Seldom will living beings dwell in this expanse out of their own desire, for the endless layers of dried soil only conceal carcasses and lost souls.

And yet, the silence breaks under a pulsing rumble on this heated day, signifying the arrival of those under the calling of the Sogdian warrior, hundreds of whom now ride valiantly across these outskirts of their homeland. The blackened muscles of panting stallions drive them onward, each powerful stride generating wisps of feral dust that only cloud their paths furthermore. Onward they sprint as the guardians of a land under fatal threat, pursuing fears that remain far too unknown.

A deep horn sounds in two deliberate tones, and within seconds, all movements deescalate into a singular, languid pace.

“We rest!” The leader commands with resolve.

The men grunt with approval, and many immediately dismount from their horses in order to loosen the suffocating armor that test their endurance. Clasps come swiftly undone while hats and helmets fall to the ground with little fanfare, other than the relieved gasps that follow.

From his discreet position, Otabek watches the scene in silence.

They are young like him, often younger – and for many this is merely their first foray into warfare. All possess physical competence, yet the fragilities of the mental form do not escape Otabek’s keen scrutiny. Even the one immediately flanking him in their formation – a lean-faced man with sunken cheekbones and a pointed chin – is no different. Time and again, he howls ardent declarations for his young wife into the skies as they ride on, with a dedication that rivals even the stars' promise to appear every night.

Lingering beneath all their hollow aspirations is that unforgiving knowledge - only half a day’s journey away from their precious land is the relentless one they call _Alexander_ , wielding a sword no doubt drenched in the blood of his defeated. The hoofs of the demon king’s fearsome steed grind against conquered ground, crumbling fine sand into even less insignificant grains.

Time and again, even the most tenacious of warriors must indulge in what they had left behind.

 _Yuri_.

His fist clenches around the wooden carving suspended over his chest.

\--

_The final piece of leather enveloping Otabek’s armor proves the hardest to put on, as its inadequate size barely stretches over the firm layers already in place beneath. With the flawed grace of a stoic he struggles against the restricted mobility of his torso and limbs, a most hopeless task at the pinnacle of a maddening day._

_Afternoon light suddenly appears in a myriad of dancing forms throughout his tent, creeping through a misshaped opening created at the entrance. There is no need for him to turn around, for only one individual would ever dare to pay visit without identification, and only one would care enough to visit him in these fateful times._

_"Are you here to deliver your parting words to me, Yuri?" He returns to a usual, somber stance, temporarily ceasing all fruitless scuffles._

_There is a pause, followed by the faint noise of fabric being dragged across the ground –_ he must be wearing his favorite cloak again _, Otabek thinks – and soon, a presence materializes just behind him._

_"I refuse to utter such nonsense." Yuri’s sharp tongue is punctuated by his evident irritation. "That bastard Greek King has never been challenged by the likes of you."_

_“The Greek King is a respected warrior as well.”_

_“Not like you.” The retort is swift and full of emotions Otabek cannot comprehend, even when long, elegant fingers clutch at his calloused ones in a frustrated manner._

_“_ You _are a hero, Otabek.”_

_He knows that in Yuri’s eyes, he has never been anything less. Ever since their first meeting as neighbors and him bearing witness to the astounding sight of golden hair and alabaster skin – traits only an adopted orphan could possess in their land – he has always sought to protect the fiery soul beneath those delicate features. They were innocent all those years ago, but Otabek understood sooner than necessary that beauty was truly in the eye of the beholder, for the striking boy named Yuri endured prejudice from the rest of Samarkand’s people, and for the same reasons as Otabek’s own reverence of him. To all others, Yuri was a coil of boundless strength, countering against heartless words and actions throughout upbringing. But only in the privacy of their two homes did that resilient heart occasionally unravel, for there one could bear witness to the pair of children huddling in the corners, the younger shedding infinite tears into the elder’s embrace._

_At the worrying memory Otabek releases their clutched hands at last to turn around, and he sighs in relief that the Yuri who faces him now bears no visible signs of lament. Instead, he is the vision Otabek remembers with painful clarity: long, golden hair cascading like the sand dunes of the deserts, undulating at the slightest breeze as the ends sway near his waist. The pair of alert, aquamarine eyes still command more determination than most of the warriors he has encountered, especially now as they dart across the unkempt nature of his armor, assessing every imperfect detail._

_“You need help with this again, don’t you?”_

_Otabek can do little but nod in response, raising his arms awkwardly to welcome any aid._

_After all, he has always needed Yuri for this part – and at many other times._

_Lithe hands immediately perform the daunting task, undoing buttons and rearranging material as Yuri deems necessary. Even when confronted with heavier pieces of metal or mail, he removes and reinstates them with little effort. As always, every action is smooth and without hesitation, as if he thoroughly understands all resolutions to the worries plaguing the man in front of him. With every reconstructed step, he circles Otabek’s figure once, ensuring that all attachments are appropriately in place._

_Eventually, Yuri stands back, admiring his completed work with a satisfied grin. At the rare sight, a phantom pain scatters across Otabek’s chest, as if the warmth of such an expression had already penetrated through all those artificial layers of defense. He knows his usually controlled expression is slowly contorting into a grimace, because for the first time since morning, harsh realizations enact a merciless strike against his conscience._

_“Thank you, Yuri.” He finally strains._

_Yuri scoffs with amusement, seemingly not noticing his internal strife. Instead, he makes a most unusual declaration._

_“One more piece still remains, Otabek.”_

_Before the warrior can voice bewilderment, the younger man reaches into his right cloak sleeve, retrieving a uniquely shaped wooden pendant connected to a piece of twine._

_“For you.” He extends the gift. “I carved this.”_

_Otabek receives the object with delicacy, appreciating its intricately crafted details through touch first and foremost. The maple wood has been smoothened beyond measure, with a texture more similar to fabric than fauna. Though its size barely exceeds the width of his thumb, every indent and protrusion is prudently placed, shaping features unique to something Yuri has always been affectionate towards._

_“A feline creature?” He mutters aloud, a passive heart swelling with his own affections. “For my protection?”_

_“No, I have far more confidence in your actual strength than any superstitious charms.” A rosy tinge emerges upon Yuri’s cheeks, though Otabek cannot be certain whether it is simply another illusion courtesy of the afternoon sun. “Consider this a token of…of my support.”_

Support. _He nearly smiles at the absurd safeness of the word. “Is that all, Yuri?”_

_The gifter’s lips part, as if prompted to elaborate, but they close again to swallow whatever had wanted to escape. Instead, the next words from Yuri deviate, with no intention of returning to Otabek’s inquiry._

_“Do you remember that night, last winter?” An uncharacteristic glassiness alters aquamarine irises into a sullen turquoise. “When we snuck out of the city walls together and laid on the frozen river ice for hours, watching the stars?”_

_At first, the memory washes over him in the form of a calming wave. “I do.”_

_Reaching for Otabek’s opened palm, Yuri reclaims his carving for a moment._

_“A few of the stars had formed the shape of a feline.” As he narrates the tale, long fingers unwind the knot upon the twine. “You had pointed it out to me because you knew I was fond of the animal.”_

_When Yuri leans into him boldly, attempting to retie the pendant around his neck, Otabek realizes that he remembers that night all too well. Similar to now, neither proximities nor boundaries had existed between them - only intertwined fingers pointing together at each glow in the galaxy, faint body heat from one remedying the other’s inevitable shivers, and frigid ice beneath numbing all their adverse senses – including any semblance of fear or anxiety. Their universe was beautifully silent then, a vast haven full of promises and journeys to come, never to be destroyed._

_But as Yuri parts from him again, the brutality of their current condition is all that remains. For they now exist in a false imitation of that tranquility – an agonizing silence that threatens to smother them both within the tent._

_“When winter comes,” Yuri centers the pendant, both voice and hands quivering as if the temperature surrounding them were already glacial. “We must do that again…Otabek.”_

_The request is feeble at best, possessing none of the conviction Yuri usually commands. It is then that the hero’s own façade finally shatters, for he fathoms the inevitability of this upcoming voyage, his utter powerlessness at protecting what had always been most important to him. Before the distance between them grows any further, stout arms fervently enfold a slender figure within, while fingers meander through radiant tresses in their own measure of despair._

_“I will not return from this, Yuri.” Hopeless words are all that remain from the warrior, no longer embodying his usual composure. “Samarkand will be lost, no matter our sacrifice.”_

_“I know.” Familiar tears from their childhood embraces return, as fists pound against armor in a heart wrenching amalgamation of denial and fury. “Do not say it again. DO NOT say it again.”_

_Before them lies only a path into the Sogdian deserts, with its merciless sandstorms concealing cruel enemies and ceasing all attempts at escape. The river waters that previously supported their bodies have withered away, leaving only burnt silt and parched life forces grasping for every last chance at existence. Somewhere in those lands, the two of them stand alone, eternally separated by the fatal consequences of power.  Within this universe of ruthless warfare they are innocents once more - forced to grapple with the reality that whatever they had shared – the closeness, the mingling breaths, the touches – may never come to pass again._

\--

The silhouettes of two riders appear from afar, rousing uneasy commotion among the resting men. The tensions fade once the familiar patterns of Sogdian armor become apparent, but Otabek’s reliable instinct continues to whisper dire warnings into his ears.

As their allies draw close, cries of terror also manifest in their full capacity.

“ _Alexander_! It’s Alexander and his men! They must have marched overnight…they are mere moments away from here!”

His heart darkens to a shade akin to oblivion, and the only resolve remains is that of persistence. For even if he endures for a moment further, it's a moment longer to _live_ , one more instant of retaining those memories that only a hero curates for himself – those epic tales of victory and strength, of failure and loss, of splendor and love.

_He kisses the pale, trembling forehead of the one he loves and loves him in return._

The same kiss graces the carving around his neck before Otabek tucks the memento carefully within his armor – the last objects bearing Yuri’s own touch. Then, he wistfully abandons all the beautiful stories they already lived and had yet to live, unleashing an indignant cry to the sky as he charges at the shadows emerging on the horizon.

_His feet pace onward towards that inevitable fate, situated outside the tent in the form of a trusted stallion - ready to escort him to where his heroic story ends._

_"Go. Do not turn back."_

Yuri’s final murmur resonates within his psyche, trumping even the thunderous battle cries stirring the warriors’ final assault.

_"Be with the stars, Otabek."_

[Samarkand Overture – End]

\--

\--

 **A/N:** My greatest gratitude goes out to everyone who has spent time to read through my first attempt at portraying Otayuri in fanfiction (Sorry about the heavy dose of angst) as well as my first AO3 contribution! Each chapter in this series stems from my countless listens of Otabek  & Yurio’s four pieces of competition music in the first season of YOI. Needless to say, this first chapter was inspired by Otabek's short program music, Samarkand Overture, and its setting is loosely based on Alexander the Great's conquering of Samarkand (Marakanda) in 329 B.C. 

While I will be incorporating elements of actual Persian/Russian history throughout the four chapters after researching extensively for the purposes of writing this fic, I am admittedly not of Russian/Kazakh/Uzbek origin nor well-versed in the more specific details, so please forgive any cultural deviations, misattributions, and the like.

Chapter 2 will feature On Love: Agape. We will travel forward to the 12th century and view another scenario, this time in Yuri(o)'s perspective.


	2. On Love: Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Learn from him, son, and perhaps you will be worthy of a throne someday._ The pitiless order from many months ago had sent a plague upon Yuri’s soul.
> 
> And yet, the wounds left no scars, for Otabek’s own soul proved pure – and _kind_ beyond all measure, as if the very embodiment of grace had taken refuge within that handsome shell of might. From their first feigned bout in this very courtyard to the most recent, they had always been bonded by mutuality rather than hostility, and over time, Yuri had come to treasure every weekly session, each second that could be spared for this companionship.
> 
>  _Time._ With little warning, new wounds now threaten to materialize within.
> 
>  
> 
> _Such little time remains._

**On Love: Agape  
** _1108 A.D._

* * *

 

 _Clack, clack, clack_.

Measured footsteps clinging to a hushed rhythm disrupt the tranquility of the castle, eliciting sounds that merrily bounce off aged bricks in their attempt to invade countless ears. The familiarity reminds all who detect them of morning’s arrival – and that within the confines of a safeguarded Kiev, the young prince’s limited patience is already on its weekly trial.

“Now step left…left…back…”

Within a private hall decorated with frescos of grand, colorful patterns, a tall figure commands directives through amused whispers, as if never certain whether their intended recipient would actually abide. Said recipient remains at a rigid distance from the instructor, despite a pair of clutched hands on one side of them, and at the opposite – uncomfortable mutual holds around the waist.

Together, the joined silhouettes craft an inelegant dance; perhaps the most graceless in the history of the capital.

“Back… _back_ , Your Highness.”

An awkward pause becomes permanent as boot clashes with boot near the ground, marking yet another failure in this lackluster partnership.

“Ugh!” Frustration finally takes the form of a grunt, followed by an incessant stream of curses that could damn even the purest soul who heard it. Without hesitation, linked hands break apart, and the distance between teacher and pupil grows even further by a few exasperated steps.

“Shall I change this section completely, Your Highness?” The taller man knits both eyebrows in concern, his freed hand weaving through a short blond mane before brushing against the hints of facial hair along his mouth.

“Considering I’ve been unable to perform this transition for the past week – that _would_ be wise, Christophe.” The sarcastic remark is accompanied by a fiery stare, its blistering shade of green unmatched by even the most brilliant of emeralds. Only in legends have such stunning eyes come to pass, yet no one could possibly question their existence upon a privileged heir to the throne, for few others seem deserving of such a benediction.

His Highness Yuri, bearer of such mystifying eyes and the flaxen hair of fairytales, embodies all signs of a divine blessing. And yet, at a tender 15 years old in age, no blessing had prepared young Yuri for this calamity of coordination and rhythm, where errors are as irredeemable as miscalculations on the battlefield.

“Let us…try this again with the changed steps.” Ever patient, Christophe Giacometti does a customary bow and awaits his student’s inviting hand. Some months ago, Prince Vladimir’s summon had arrived at the Kingdom of Burgundy, requesting the distinguished dancer’s tenure at the Kievan Rus capital. But despite all his expertise in this art form, even the most respected instructor cannot perfect what may be eternally flawed.

As such, said flaws lie not in Yuri’s skill, but in trust and patience.

"Christophe." Rather than extending his arm, the young prince dons a mischievous tone. “ _I_ have a better idea.”

The older man nearly protests, but a sigh escapes instead at the inevitability of his obedience.

Above the royal’s pointed chin, a sly grin forms.

" _You_ take the lead."

It is not the most absurd of the infinite requests from Yuri since their lessons commenced, but it is certainly the most difficult to satisfy. So accustomed is Christophe to playing the feminine role against ungraceful noblemen on the dance floor, he seldom even recalls the techniques of becoming the guide. _And to “dominate” in this manner over an heir of the Kievan Rus? Prince Vladimir would likely display my head on a spear before dusk if I were caught._ He muses.

"You want to be the woman?" For the moment, he can only question through accented speech, whilst making no physical attempt to fulfill the wish.

The prince’s sneer from moments ago swiftly fades into a frown, and the ensuing response proves indirect. "Leading fatigues me to _no end_. I just want someone to twirl _me_ around for once, Christophe."

"Well, I am not so familiar with that, I’m afraid. And this won't help with what you must do next week."

Struck with the seemingly undesirable reminder, Yuri’s frown visibly deepens, all features subsiding further within the abyss of frustration that he always seems to excavate for himself. With no means of salvation as per usual, Christophe can only brace for the abundance of royal pains about to be unleashed unto the world.

A pale complexion adopts hues of crimson, followed by the vocal release of a near-command. "Can’t we just _try_ \---"

"Your Highness." With little warning, the feminine voice of a servant sounds from the entrance to the hall, where this identical phrase emerges at the same time and place on most days. "I am sorry to interrupt, but…it is now time for your combat training."

Though his lips remain parted at first, the prince suddenly straightens his posture, allowing a visible spark back into his eyes. At once, his entire body language begins to reflect Yuri’s own special dialect, echoing immense confidence rather than any disappointment at the disruption. With a hasty wave he bids farewell, relinquishing all dance ambitions for the day in favor of more _violent_ times on the daily agenda. Christophe watches with some surprise at his student’s departure, each footstep enthusiastic as they lead him to a row of chairs near the door, where a crimson cape spills over lavishly decorated cushions.

Once Yuri seizes the temporarily discarded piece of attire and follows his servant outside, the elder dancer exhales with relief.

 _Ah, salvation at last_.

A part of him, however, ponders upon Yuri’s spontaneous abandoning of all vexations at the end. After all, while the prince has never been recognized as a relentless warrior, he had always shown extraordinary favor to his combat training. As such, whatever had captivated him in _those_ lessons was likely neither weaponry nor bloodlust. Rather, it must be something calming – so much so that it even appeases his foulest of moods.

\--

On this morning, Yuri finds himself scurrying down the castle corridors at a brisker fashion, failing to even don his royal cape as proper etiquette requires in such spaces. In a rather maddening correlation, his heart also pounds faster than usual within its hidden chamber, each beat stirring rabid contemplations.

 _He will agree to it, won’t he? He must. I_ know _he must. I wish Christophe agreed to practice with me first, but alas…_

Where his next lesson transpires is within a private courtyard, merely a short walk from the dance hall – yet today, it feels perpetually distant. When Yuri rounds the final corner and shoves aside the hefty gate, the rush of fresh air into his lungs reignites another burst of vitality.

As with every other week, _he_ waits at the center of the picturesque space, the blue brocade of noble attire a stark contrast to the array of marble pillars lining the perimeter, and a wooden blade extending securely from a gloved hand’s grip. From above, the radiance of visiting daylight weaves through raven hair in the form of countless threads, fashioning what resembles a delicate halo over an otherwise stout figure.

As always, Yuri finds himself mystified for a moment too long.

“ _Otabek_.” He finally mutters, breathless not from the trek but from the sight.

At the acknowledgement, the firstborn son of the honorable house of Altin performs his customary bow.

“Your highness.”

Though the same salutation enters Yuri’s ears countless times throughout one day, the beautiful richness embedded into this particular voice occasionally haunts his most enigmatic dreams. His senses absorb each syllable with care, as if they were artifacts to be cherished rather than mere words spoken out of necessity and tradition.

But tradition, to Yuri’s occasional discontent, also defines Otabek Altin. Long had rumors existed connecting his lineage to members present at Constantine’s Council of Nicea centuries ago – as such, his family’s renowned piety rivals that of the most devout Orthodox priests. And God’s blessings certainly appear prevalent in Otabek’s destiny, a fact best proven by how his mere presence has long been the subject of giggles and gossip among all females within the capital.  Moreover, at 19 he is already a trusted junior member of Prince Vladimir’s _Druzhina_ – the youngest to ever be bestowed that honor by Yuri’s own father. Such a designation had paved the path for their meeting as teacher and pupil, as Vladimir had been terribly dissatisfied at Yuri’s failure to form independent alliances within the castle.

 _Learn from him, son, and perhaps you will be worthy of a throne someday_. The pitiless order from many months ago had sent a plague upon Yuri’s soul.

And yet, the wounds left no scars, for Otabek’s own soul proved pure – and _kind_ beyond all measure, as if the very embodiment of grace had taken refuge within that handsome shell of might. From their first feigned bout in this very courtyard to the most recent, they had always been bonded by mutuality rather than hostility, and over time, Yuri had come to treasure every weekly session, each second that could be spared for this companionship.

 _Time_. With little warning, new wounds now threaten to materialize within.

 _Such little time remains_.

"Which of the _myechi_ and _shchiti_ would you like to use today?" A routine inquiry from the soldier finally breaks through the atypical silence.

Yuri’s attention briefly recovers, and by instinct his eyes travel to the standing set of wooden sabers and shields not far from his position. Rather than making a swift selection as any other day, he gazes at the aged imperfections upon each false blade and dented surface, reenacting every instance where Otabek had effortlessly damaged those same weapons in their duels. Despite his countless defeats, Yuri knows he always upholds nothing short of respect – or rather, absolute awe -- for the liege’s endless methods to either disarm or overwhelm adversaries. And yet, as the pillars and plant life within the courtyard can likely attest to, Yuri recalls himself retreating to his infamous temperament after most losses, allowing frustrations to be vocalized far more often than admirations. The responses from Otabek, however, remain as constant as his victories: a heartening smile until Yuri’s serenity returns, followed by further instruction in the gentlest manner. It is different from Christophe, who is compassionate yet only somewhat successful at masking any distastes that surface. And it is a far cry from all of his other teachers and advisors and counsel of _all_ issues, most of whom simply resign after one too many disagreements.

Yuri cares little for those departures, for he knows all too well of one truth.

Otabek, with his God-given beatitudes and genuine benevolence, is a divine solace – Yuri’s _myech_ and _shchit_ against the onslaught of his own destiny.

_Perhaps that…is why I---_

A myriad of thoughts engulf the young monarch, triggering inquiries long undeclared.

"Why do you never scold me as I deserve, Otabek?" He utters words rather unbecoming of his status, while both eyes remain trained on the blemished weaponry. "I am an arrogant, irrational prince who has tested your patience far too many times. And father would have supported your actions no matter what."

“Your highness?”

Yuri turns, partaking in an act of confrontation from afar. During their usual duels, watching Otabek’s sheer concentration is practically an indulgence, and quite ironically why Yuri himself lacks that much-needed focus. But now, even at a distance, he observes the glaring disparity sheltered within orbs of onyx – a dash of absolute trepidation accompanying the spoken words, prevailing over what are usually the most assertive eyes he has ever encountered. That absent confidence now rests within Yuri instead, and with an unrelenting stare, he presents the challenge to respond.

"…To scold you is not my place." An uncustomary limpness overtakes Otabek’s posture as he attempts explanation. "And...it is _certainly_ not in my nature. God calls us to humble ourselves, whether in front of our masters or acquaintances."

 _Such piety indeed_. Yuri almost scoffs at the predictability. “What am _I_ to you, then?”

A silence more extended than the previous ensues.

“You…are both.”

 _But am I more than that as well?_ The prince nearly voices before swallowing the treacherous question. Instead, as if abandoning all his obligations, he tosses his cape aside and takes a few courageous strides forward.

"Relieve yourself of your weapon." He commands mid-step.

Otabek’s gaze shifts from unease to bewilderment, but he obeys without much contemplation, releasing the wooden sword from his grip and placing it upon the ground. As he straightens his back once more, Yuri also concludes his short journey, halting at a point where only a short distance remains between their torsos.

Resisting all temptations to falter at Otabek’s closeness, Yuri declares his wish once and for all.

“Today, I would like to dance. With _you_ as my partner."

Though the soldier’s height reigns supreme, it is the prince who intimidates.

" _Dance_ , Your Highness?" Dark eyebrows curl in surprise.

Yuri frowns - not at the evident conflict in the other man’s voice, but rather the strange attractiveness of his jawline as it moves.

"Do you not know how?"

There is suddenly a flush upon bronzed skin, a fluster of words that deliver themselves without the usual constraint. "I was only taught...how to lead. That is not approp--"

"Then lead _me_."

The same chiseled jaw hangs mid-speech, its intentions thoroughly disrupted by the revelation of another.

"Go on." Yuri lifts his right arm, requesting the invitation formally.

Had there not been the sound of deepening breaths and the amplified rise and fall of a firm chest, Yuri may have accepted that the masters of time had rendered Otabek immobile for eternity. A part of him is certain that his pale cheeks have also darkened to rosiness, but his mind is far too transfixed by his prospective partner’s likely deliberations to carry any other concerns.

Unfortunately, the stunned, hooded gaze at the elevated hand between them betrays little. And when too much time has passed for his liking, Yuri attempts a controversial last resort – albeit with caution.

"As one of your masters, I _order_ you to lead me."

As if subjected to an awakening, Otabek finally escapes his reveries, blinking profusely to return himself to the matters at hand. With little additional hesitation, he finally raises his own hand to welcome Yuri’s elegant fingers into the glove’s warmth.

“Such an order is not necessary.” Hints of repentance impart themselves into a steadfast voice. “Please accept my regrets for implying so.”

Yuri nods, a rare smile emerging upon his face as contentment begins to inhabit both body and spirit. Though bothersome layers still separate skin from skin, an extraordinary sort of comfort rests in this physical connection, created for reasons other than instruction. And when Otabek’s other hand settles itself upon his waist, Yuri nearly shudders, his every nerve rejuvenated by the tenderness of such a contact.

When sufficient recovery allows him to place an arm past Otabek’s shoulder, the soldier leans forward into his loose embrace – not suddenly, but in the most natural fashion that grants them an unprecedented intimacy.

"What is the song you envision, Your Highness?" The whisper is so soft, so innocent – yet in Yuri’s perception, there is no holiness in the way Otabek’s breath brushes past his earlobe.

"Something…melodic, light...perhaps with a choir boy's voice…" He murmurs into his partner’s neck with as much control as he can muster, envisioning a tune of unconditional beauty and virtue. It represents the days of past, when too little had yet been discovered by curious minds; when the pure affection between humanity was still equivalent to any worship of the divine; when his own fate had continued on a single, undeterred path towards happiness, perfected by the faint echoes of aggravation and laughter throughout a palace courtyard.

“An ode to God?” The pious soldier questions, his chin nearly resting on Yuri’s shoulder.

“No.” Yuri places his palm gently against Otabek’s nape. “An ode to _love_.”

He chooses to not gauge his partner’s reaction to his last words; instead, he closes his eyes and hums the enchanting melody that had been composing itself little by little within his mind since morning. Though he shares few abilities with any choir boy of competence, Yuri manages to match an elastic rhythm with accurate pitches, bouncing from the erratic transitions from high notes to low notes with relative ease.

Before long, he is drawn into the gentle flow of Otabek’s movements, cautious footsteps gliding over stone as they attempt to follow an unfamiliar tempo. Yuri remains oblivious to sight, fully entrusting those temporary futures of each stride and sashay to the one who has already taught him much else - albeit in the less elegant of skillsets. He knows they are much too close together for the proper, traditional dance that Christophe teaches, but that is hardly a matter of concern. What does cause Yuri’s breath to hitch is the firmness of Otabek’s grip, the channeled feeling of a stalwart body grappling with a duality of strength versus sophistication, and the precise yet daring style by which this body leads them both, seemingly covering the entire expanse of the courtyard without depleting Yuri’s stamina. Under the watchful sun, they undulate together in accordance with the song’s own rises and falls, fashioning an expectedly immaculate partnership in artistry.

Though he observes nothing, Yuri’s heart surges with emotions he did not think himself capable of, for there is such perfection, such extraordinary _trust_ in this moment that he can discover with no one else. His song, intended to be an homage to unconditional love for the divine, had been composed with Otabek’s godliness in mind, but now Yuri himself must conceal an abundance of envy, for he wishes that such devotion had been meant for him instead.

When he sounds the last note, his body cautiously transitions into a closing twirl at Otabek’s guidance, and the ensuing steps steer Yuri directly into an embrace of sorts, where his pounding heartbeat echoes directly against another.

“Thank you, Otabek.” Yuri’s eyes finally open, yet he dares not look up, as they may betray too many sentiments beyond his control. “For this…final dance.”

A pause seems to hamper both voice and motion for the one still enfolding him within sturdy arms.

“…‘Final,’ Your Highness?”

Torment clenches Yuri then, as reality manifests in its truest form at last. Time and again he has ignored what must come to pass, substituting it with a wish, a song, a dance that represents a divergent fate. But now, all such desires have reached their ends, and only the melancholy acceptance of what is imminent lingers.

"I was told by father yesterday that I am leaving next week for Rostov-Suzdal. To meet and marry my betrothed…some daughter of a Khan." _Oh God. Oh Gods. My sword and my shield. This prince loves you so._ "Today’s meeting shall be our last."

He attempts to maintain a steady voice, though his thoughts detour with painful wanderlust. In the midst of distress, Yuri thinks that the clenches upon his tunic have tightened, but he cannot be certain.

“I see.” Faint resignation seeps into Otabek’s response. “As…God commands.”

"As my _father_ commands, you mean." Vehemence boils over faster than Yuri can anticipate, and he shoves the soldier away, his own mind abruptly beleaguered by unspoken doubt. "Oh Otabek, your blind love for God..." _What else has it blinded you from?_ “…do you genuinely believe that it was His calling for me to leave Kiev in such a sordid way?” _For us to part?_ “You and I both know my father will be ordained as Grand Prince soon, and I…I am merely being used as a means of diplomacy…"

The fury in his tirade fades near the end, for he deciphers a measure of hollowness in Otabek’s lowered eyes. A part of Yuri feels relief that their separation at least involves some mutual rejection, while another suffers regret at assuming otherwise.

They stand in solemnity, as if speaking any more words would inflict further damage. Only when the castle’s bell tower tolls to signal the arrival of mid-day does the stillness break, and as the lethargic sounds reverberate throughout Kiev, Yuri watches Otabek reach into the collar of his tunic, pulling harshly at an object around his neck to release it from its longtime tether.

_A wooden…cat?_

In the most formal manner, the soldier kneels, balancing himself upon one knee and bowing his head before extending the hand that previously grasped Yuri’s in dance.

"This…I found this as a child in a market and have never parted with it since. Though it is not a Christian icon, I believe it has always brought me good fortune." As he divulges, the pendant rests within his grasp, the intricacy of its detailed etchings confounding its actual age. "If Your Highness accepts this as my parting gift, you would bequeath the highest honor upon me."

The prince fails to speak at first, uncertain how to interpret a gesture infused with such finality. Though Otabek’s mindfulness is no doubt genuine, Yuri is more bewildered by how such a God-fearing man could don a false emblem for so many years, and how effortlessly the same man could accept the excruciating farewell that befalls them.

“Please, Your Highness. Do accept.”

For perhaps the first time, the way Otabek expresses his royal title fails to enthrall Yuri. Instead, the synthesis of vexation and confusion inspires a final request – a wish he had never previously considered in the face of decorum.

" _Yuri_." He states with conviction. "I will only accept this if you address me as ‘Yuri,’ even if just once. You say I am more than a master to you – if I am also acquaintance, then please, address me by my God-given name before I depart."

The response comes without pause.

"I cannot." As he declines, Otabek’s attention remains trained on the ground. "To say such a thing is, for me…to commit the sin of idolatry."

The rejection proves more painful than most experiences Yuri has tolerated in his lifetime, and though it is far from a denial of his deepest affections, the throb within his heart is already too immense to endure. Despite all the forewarnings of his conscience, his desire to expose a most absurd hypocrisy – even for the man in front of him - overwhelms all resistance.

"You dare to have a relic not in the form of a cross but a _cat_ , yet saying my name is the sin?"

Otabek raises his head, wearing an expression of utter shock at the accusation. Only then does Yuri recognize that the devastation reflected within the soldier’s eyes is identical to his own, but before he can formulate further words, it is Otabek who speaks first.

“Whatever strength you may perceive me to possess, I do endure struggles of the most detrimental kind.” Though already an honest man, an unprecedented degree of candor pervades. “I _struggle_ , Your Highness, for my heart has already wavered. Often.”

Yuri feels his fingers enter sudden captivity, leaving his side as they are delicately seized once more by Otabek’s gloved hand. Before long, a pair of lips land upon his knuckle, warming skin that had become as frigid as the Rus winters. The blessing is fleeting, yet it acknowledges a faith that must remain hushed – and perhaps a wish for an alternate, joyous eternity, not in heaven but on earth itself.

“My feeble heart…it has long desired to worship someone other than God.” The admission comes hesitantly, each word writhing in agony as Otabek presses the wooden pendant into Yuri’s grasp. “Someone who has always been divine…to myself.”

They dwell in an empty church of their own creation, a standing, trembling priest shutting tearful eyes as he digests the startling confession of the kneeling sinner. Though neither realized until this very moment, so unconditional had their love been for one another that God itself was reduced to a mere melody, playing accompaniment to mortal dance steps that ceased far too soon.

Clutching his gift, Yuri finally accepts both victory and defeat in his duel with the divine in Otabek’s heart. He then bows himself, placing lips upon the forehead of the humble soldier for the first and last time before turning to depart. The earnest grasp upon his fingers loosen with reluctance before releasing them completely, and as their liaison forlornly concludes, the young prince takes lonesome steps toward an unknown future.

"Still think of me, Otabek." He voices one final request as he looks to the skies. "Perhaps not as God ordains…but always, _always_ as your own heart commands."

[On Love: Agape – End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!! Sorry (Not sorry) for yet another dose of angst. Yay!
> 
> Historically, Yuri here is very loosely based on **Yuri I (Yuri I Vladimirovich/Yuri Dolgorukiy)** , the founder of the city of Moscow and part of the lineage of the Rurik Dynasty/Kievan Rus' rulers. In the same era, Orthodox Christianity became intertwined with those in power as well, hence the connection in this chapter to the concept of “Agape.” In Christianity, there is also the idea of going into battle donning “The Armor of God” (Including the Sword of the Spirit and the Shield of Faith), which is why I referenced that aspect throughout.
> 
> Something also interesting to note is that Yuri I was apparently sent away and married his first wife when he was only 9-years-old (!), but I obviously implemented much-needed timeline extensions with that one. I also had to take some major liberties because ballroom dancing was technically not part of Russian culture during the Rurik Dynasty. But alas, one must do what she must do ;)
> 
> Chapter 3 will move OtaYuri and us into the 19th century. While the past two chapters have had a “certain” tone to the writing, this will shift somewhat in the next phase – stay tuned!
> 
> If you feel so inclined, please let me know any thoughts via review or message! Thank you once more <3


	3. Symphony No. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly cannot apologize enough for the long delay on this chapter! I can only hope that the wait was worthwhile, as this section is actually longer than the previous two combined.
> 
> One thing to note is that I actually referenced [Symphony No. 9’s Movement 3: Adagio Molto e Cantabile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCacftrkmLc) for the majority of this piece, rather than the one Otabek actually skated to.  
> All dates are from Yuri’s perspective.

**Chapter III:  Symphony No. 9  
** _1811 A.D._

* * *

 

**June 8 th, 1811**

_Yuri…_

_Yuri……_

The mirage whispers his name in an earthy tone, so deep that even the ground beneath him trembles with fright. He floats, weightless within innumerable, ethereal scenes that never manifest in full, each greeting his sight through fading transitions.

_Is this a desert? Or is this something akin to…heaven?_

_Yuri…_

“Yuri!”

The firm knock of stiff material against the back of Yuri’s skull wrenches him from the depths of slumber, repositioning his senses until reality renders itself once more. Though his spine straightens with rapid velocity, his mind still dawdles behind – but as soon as crimson hair enters the peripheral of Yuri’s fatigued eyes, any neurons that control the irate side of his personality catches up with unprecedented speed.

“ _What_ is the matter with you?!” He protests as he reaches behind his head, furiously rubbing at the stinging aftereffects of Mila’s makeshift alarm. His previous unconscious posture had nudged his thin-rimmed spectacles aside, causing one lens to elevate enough to cover his pale eyebrow.

“A parcel has arrived for us!” The young woman answers glowingly, her words completely devoid of any regret or guilt. Within her delicate fingers rests the cause of his current headache – a mid-sized box encased in brownish material and secured with an endless length of twine, winding around and around until even its ends have been concealed.

“ _Us_?” Yuri eyes the package with suspicion as he readjusts his spectacles, his thoughts failing to identify any special occasions for such an arrival.

“It is addressed to our _department_ , of course.” Mila elevates her sarcasm. “Which, ever since Professor Feltsman’s temporary leave, has been just _you_ \- and _me_. No?”

 _Oh, right_. At that moment, reality at last settles in fully for the young Russian. The sprawling room he had fallen asleep in is the library of Moscow State University, where he had been serving as both student and provisional assistant instructor of Russian History. When his primary instructor fell ill weeks ago, Mila had been promoted from assistant to substitute within the same day, emerging victorious against any doubtful critics of females commanding such a role. And as Yuri had been consistently ranked at the top of all his courses within this topic, she had somehow thought him an adequate protégé. All things considered, she at least acknowledges his disdain towards public speaking – and people in general, for that matter. Hence, Yuri is permitted to simply remain in the background, focusing on refinement of the upcoming curriculum rather than any actual teaching or interaction.

The days had progressed with little beyond monotony, and despite all innate yearnings to escape the grounds and seek his own calling within this field of study, Yuri had somehow suppressed all such desires over time, grudgingly accepting his current fortunes.

Hence, even minute disruptions such as this parcel were most welcome.

“This has come to us from… Kiev? Strange.” Mila squints as she attempts to decipher the scribbled origins upon the amber material.

“Open the damn thing already.” Yuri clicks his tongue with impatience, taking hold of a corner before wrestling the entire thing from Mila’s grip. “I’m far too tired for drawn-out mysteries today.”

Retrieving a penknife from the communal supplies upon the study desk, Yuri swipes the blade against a few strands of twine, relieving the package of its outermost confinement. Even before the fibers completely unwind, he finds where certain areas had been bonded together and begins to peel, lithe fingers undoing the next layer of protection with expertise.

When the box finally emerges from the many complex folds, unveiling wooden halves held together by metal closures, Yuri eagerly raises the rectangular lid to unveil the contents.

Their eyes, however, are greeted by yet another, smaller case, this time made of darker hued wood and positioned neatly within the original’s boundaries – with yet another layer of twine providing security. Somewhat irritated, Yuri removes the new obstructions in the same manner as before, only to be greeted with a metal box beneath the second coverings.

“Whatever this may be, it seems to require…significant protection.” Mila whistles.

Thoroughly offended by the ordeal, Yuri shoves the entire endeavor aside. “Is this a _gag_? How many safeguards did this madman use?” His arms fold instinctively against his torso, claiming refusal towards further efforts. “If there ends up being nothing inside, I am going to—”

Chuckling, Mila reaches for the silver-toned object Yuri has just abandoned, examining every side briefly before opening it with care. A bloom of hay greets them first, its dried filaments padding nearly every corner. In the midst of it all rests a miniature, wooden item bearing similar coloring to its final layer of protection, almost camouflaged within the controlled chaos.

“Ah, there it is.” The young woman inhales sharply before noticing another item affixed to the bottom side of the metal cover. “And look, a letter as well.”

Having relaxed since moments ago, Yuri watches with mild fascination as he is handed the parchment. Dark lettering materializes little by little as he gradually unfolds the thin material to its intended state, and once the entire message becomes legible, Mila also directs her attention towards the written words.

 

_To the History Branch at Moscow State University,_

_Greetings. I am an antiquarian’s apprentice in Kiev called Otabek, and I send forth this discovery from my latest excavation in the outskirts of the city._

_From my initial inspections, this is a pendant carved from maple wood, conspicuously in the shape of a feline and still preserved in prime condition. The cat’s precise breed remains unknown due to the abstract style, but as you will observe, the details are elaborate, indicating that the original sculptor had taken great efforts to create it._

_The pendant was hidden within a chest buried upon the grounds of the eldest church in this region, where my team and I had been assigned to explore. A scripted message accompanying it implied that this was an important memento that belonged to the Rurikid Prince Yuri I. It was strange to us that a man of his status would possess an unbejeweled accessory, but after independent investigations, the veracity of that document appears irrefutable._

_I imagine anything of the Prince’s is of extraordinary value to the city of Moscow, considering his essential role in the city’s founding. Rather than sending it directly to the local governance, however, I thought perhaps those in your profession would prefer to examine it first._

_Please do what you wish with this find._

_Otabek A._  
  


  
Yuri swallows as his perusal of the letter concludes, not out of nervousness but rather fascination. With most of his contemporaries invested in the likes of literature and the arts, seldom had he encountered another who shares his devotion to history. Yet with only a few statements, he deciphers a commitment similar to his own from this unknown author – someone situated not too far from Moscow.

Mila finishes her reading a few moments after. “A budding antiquarian from Kiev? Well, I must say he sounds quite knowledgeable.” Captivation also permeates her voice. “Not to mention… _handsome_.”

 _Subtle as always, Mila._ Groaning inwardly, Yuri’s brows furrow in disapproval as he turns to regard her. “How can someone possibly _sound_ handsome?”

“His handwriting certainly is handsome, so I trust my instincts.” The young woman grins before returning to her serious side. “But truly, Yuri, if this… _thing_ actually belonged to the Prince, it is _quite_ an incredible find.”

“Be that as it may, have we ever actually read about any affinity of his towards…cats?”

“No idea.” Mila shrugs. “But if he cherished this little thing so much, perhaps it was a gift from someone he deeply cared for.”

Extending one arm to adjust his spectacles, Yuri reaches out with the other, reclaiming the metal box from where he had previously forsaken it. Any remnant disdain for the object finally extinct, he now utilizes his trained hands and eyes, removing the pendant from its temporary abode with the utmost caution. Delicate to a fault, the artifact betrays none of its resilience against age and weather. But Otabek had been accurate in his description, for the wooden surface, with all its elaborate swells and indents, remains as pristine as something created this very day.

And yet from experience, Yuri is duly conscious of such façades.

“I must say, as new as it appears, this is likely even more dated than 12th century.” He squints before muttering his educated conclusion.

“I am inclined to agree, and that makes this object truly interesting.” Mila nods – she seldom ever disagrees with his analyses – and rubs a hand against her pointed chin. “How about this, then? I’ll write back to this ‘Otabek’---”

Yuri nearly propels from his chair.

“No, _I_ will write him back.” He straightens his spine and declares with as much absolution as he can muster. “You obviously now have alternative intentions that can affect your judgment on everything, Mila. I don’t want your advances or whatnot to distract him from giving us more valuable information.”

“But Yuriiii…”

Unmoved, Yuri shifts his gaze from the pair of pleading eyes and gestures for its owner to depart. “Go conduct some research on the cat-admirer detail already.”

Mila sighs in acquiescence before moving away from the desk. Though she is his superior, Yuri appreciates that she also recognizes when to surrender against his stubbornness.

“But is that research _really_ necessary? It’s not as if you are the only Yuri in history who appreciates cats…” Despite expressing a final modicum of resistance, the sound of low heels clacking against wood flooring continues, gradually fading with each reiteration.

“Just find out what you can.” Yuri instructs as he searches for unused stationary within the desk drawers. “That is what we are supposed to be doing here, no?”

With her back still towards him, Mila performs a disappointed wave before turning and entering another aisle of bookshelves.

When he finally unearths his goal, Yuri immediately flattens the fresh pieced of parchment against the desk surface, all the while seizing an ink bottle and quill that had rested at an opposite corner. With little hesitation, he pinches the pen to release excess ink before drifting its pointed end over the vacant space. Each movement is saturated with expertise and agility, as if he were a skilled soldier following the most urgent of orders.

_Dear_

A peculiar instinct had directed his hand to compose such an endearment at the start, but Yuri immediately feels regret at its questionable propriety.

“He is still a stranger, Yuri.” The young man murmurs to himself before scratching additional lines of ink over the gaffe. Then, after a deep inhale, he pulls his errant, loose hair back into a ponytail before shoving up his spectacles and releasing that same pocket of air. The slight change in appearance yields some hints of decorum, and he returns to writing again, thoroughly focused on expressions of intellect and professionalism - each word intended to impress its enigmatic recipient.

 

_~~Dear~~ Greetings,_

_This is Yuri from Moscow State University. We have received the artifact you sent to us for examination. As it apparently belongs to the city’s founder, you have our sincere thanks for returning it to Moscow._

_Though this was Yuri Dolgorukiy’s keepsake, I have determined through preliminary analysis that its true origins likely rest far earlier in human time. Could you divulge any additional insights and perhaps support my theory? I am a third-year student and researcher of Russian history here at the university, and this is, no doubt, the most enthralling discovery I have seen firsthand in all my time here. Hence, I wish to understand this pendant as much as I am able._

Finding the message satisfactory, Yuri moves to complete it with his signature. The unusual instinct he had suppressed moments earlier, however, suddenly materializes with full potency. Before he ascertains self-control, a few new statements had already emerged from his quill, proclaiming words far more intimate than he had ever intended to express.

_And if I may ask - where are you from, and what brought you to Kiev? The way you write is somewhat different from others I know from the region, so I presume that you merely settled there due to your line of work._

Staring tensely at the words he had just written, Yuri can only swallow before adding a final statement.

 

_Not that it is a bad thing. I am merely curious._

_Yuri_

\--

**July 13th, 1811**

Though Kiev is the most proximate city located in foreign territory, Yuri still finds himself more anxious with each passing day, constantly pacing through the university corridors as he awaits the presence of an envelope that may never arrive. He had intentionally ended that first letter with inquiries, hoping that they would prompt further response from Otabek. But he very well understands that his counterpart is under no obligation to do so.

Late in June, some casual questioning of different students from Kiev had educated Yuri on the estimated timeline of deliveries: assuming no weather delays, letters from Moscow usually require two weeks to reach the foreign city, and another two-week journey precedes any returns. Now, with four weeks having passed since his reply set off with the carrier, anticipation pervades most moments within Yuri’s thoughts. Under the guise of ink and parchment, he had, for once, felt assured enough to initiate conversation that would have never occurred by other means. He only hoped that such a rare demonstration of vulnerability would not go ignored.

It is mid-afternoon on this humid summer day when everything changes.

He is strolling back towards his dormitory, both arms rigid and embracing a few hefty textbooks, when a figure approaches from behind to place fervent taps upon his shoulder. Yuri twists his neck slightly at the request for his attention, but when Mila’s sly grin comes into view, he opts to ignore her bizarre action and continue walking.

This time, Mila uses a robust grip upon his shoulder to halt his steps entirely.

“What?!” Turning, Yuri protests in annoyance.

Mila’s grin only widens as she raises the brown envelope within her fingers. “Look what arriiiiived.”

Almost immediately, both of his hands abandon their previous duty and lunge forward, snatching the object of his anticipation with absurd dexterity. He barely even notices when his books surrender to the forces of gravity, nearly shattering his toes in the process. Numbed from any pain, Yuri’s breaths hitch as he regards the familiar handwriting upon the envelope surface, its neat, exquisite style rendering his own name at the very center.

“Evidently, the letter is addressed to you alone this time.” Mila continues, feigning dullness in her tone. “I must admit that I am… _somewhat_ envious.”

Yuri darts an unpleasant glance in her direction out of reflex. “Enough with your sordid speculations.” He gingerly tucks the letter into his vest before bending to pick up the fallen books. “We are only discussing the damn pendant.”

“Right.” Kneeling to help alleviate his plight, Mila releases a chuckle that is bursting with amusement. “Just remember to cherish this friendship, Yuri. Or whatever it turns out to be.”

The counsel causes a flush to invade Yuri’s cheeks, and he exerts great effort to shield his face from Mila’s view as they gather everything. As soon as they stand upright once more, he makes a hasty escape without speaking another word. But with every step, he can still feel the young woman’s intrigued gaze boring into his back.

By the time he arrives at the privacy of his room, Yuri senses that his hands had already reached their limits – not due to the weight of the textbooks, but rather the resistance of any temptation to tear open the letter sooner than necessary.

Once he slams the door shut, the numerous bound pages drop unceremoniously from his arms again - though this time, they avoid knocking into his feet. The noises startle Potya, who had been lounging in the far corner, and any hints of its white coat promptly vanish beneath his cabinet. Ignoring his jittery yet slothful pet, Yuri reaches his bed post within a few large strides, and one hand efficiently retrieves the letter as his body descends unto the stiff mattress.

 

_Dear Yuri,_

_Thank you for your kind reply._

_I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and I am relieved that the artifact has made it to the university safely. Considering its potential value, I should have brought it to Moscow personally, but my many responsibilities here in Kiev prevented me from doing so. I am afraid my previous letter already contains all the information we know about the pendant, but if I come across more, you will be the first to know._

_Your perception is correct. I am originally from Zhetysu, near Almaty in Kazakhstan. It means “Seven Rivers” and is one of the most stunning places on earth (To me, at least). The beautiful mountains that form its landscape are second to none, and the air is the cleanest you will ever breathe. If Almaty is the largest gem upon Kazakhstan’s golden crown, then Zhetysu is the overlooked, humble jewel that actually exhibits the most magnificent color._

_Despite all my affections towards the homeland, my passion for ancient history brought me to Kiev for further studies in the practice of excavation, and many others here also share my sentiments. One of my fellow apprentices and great friends here is called Phichit. He, in fact, comes all the way from the distant kingdom of Rattanakosin and is a marvelous artist by hobby. His own culture is rife with tales and relics of its own, but like me, he desired to explore places slightly less familiar. Though we are constantly enveloped in dust and soil from day to night, each new find brings invaluable worth to our experience._

_What about you? We share a love for history I presume. What is your story, Yuri?_

_Otabek_

A sigh escapes Yuri as he mulls over the letter’s final words, and he proceeds to clutch the parchment against his chest, utilizing the pressure to ease the cycle of his breaths. But even as his lungs gradually find peace, a faint ache continues to pinch at his heart, countering the swells of fondness that had emerged as he read Otabek’s poetic words. Both sensations alarm him, for neither is familiar – and Yuri knows no amount of academic research can prepare him for their future onslaughts. There exists little logical reason for the potent connection he already feels towards this stranger, the two of them having barely exchanged many words. But he wonders if the answer rests not in science but rather in history, where the act of letter-writing has always proven its merits in education, diplomacy, and of course, courtship.

_Or perhaps, we are continuing lost conversations from unknown, past selves._

The spontaneous theory seems absurd, so Yuri brushes it aside, rereading the letter once more to engage with current realities. This time around, he smirks as he imagines Otabek composing beautiful prose from an excavation site, all while still covered in the day’s worth of dirt, as he had aptly described.

The amusing image rejuvenates him, prompting a rapid move from his bed to his desk. Before long, his own quill had sprung into action, capturing Yuri’s countless trains of thought and knitting them into coherent sentences. Obsidian ink flows far more effortlessly than his previous attempt, and while he tries to maintain topical focus, the words still veer so very slightly, culminating into a wishful suggestion near the letter’s end.

 

_Greetings,_

_If it is any consolation, the way you carefully packaged the artifact protected it far more than enough, even if the consequence was Mila and I spending nearly half a day before finally accessing it._

_Mila is my overseer at the university – though her concentration is on historical figures rather than objects. We are both still in our 20’s, but we have been studying as well as teaching, ever since our mentor had to leave his position temporarily due to illness. The arrival of your gift was a nice disruption of our daily routines, and we will certainly keep you posted on anything we uncover as well._

_I have heard many positive things about Zhetysu and how beautiful it is, so your words only inspire me further. I hope to visit it myself when my schedule allows._

_Regards,  
Yuri_

\--

**August 9 th, 1811**

_Dear Yuri,_

_It would be my pleasure to show you Zhetysu. And Almaty also, if you have not been. I have taken many others through Kazakhstan’s lands in the past, so if you ever desire to witness them for yourself, I can serve as your guide – it is also an ideal reason for me to return home, even if the stay is short._

_You are already teaching history, and to so many at such a prestigious institution? I am also around your age, but I cannot fathom myself handling such a demanding responsibility. Ironically, my family has always told me that I act with the subdued demeanor of a lecturer, but my heart has always thirsted for adventure beyond my means. As such, instead of entering university I chose to follow the path of an antiquarian, and it has been a most rewarding decision thus far._

_Forgive my curiosity, but do you wish to become a lifelong historian? Or does your heart speak another tongue?_

_Otabek_

Rolling onto his back upon the mattress, Yuri hugs the new letter against his chest once again as he reaches its end. This time, however, his mind is fixated on the beats beneath his ribs, as if needing to decipher the organ’s thumping dialogue just as Otabek had inquired. He recalls faintly that his tenure in Moscow has lasted nearly six years now, initiating from the moment his grandfather had passed on back in St. Petersburg. Nikolai had left him all the history books they enjoyed reading together ever since Yuri was a child, and he had burrowed his head into them again, absorbing every detail possible. Weeks later, through a serendipitous dinner invitation from his old ballet instructor, Yuri had impressed her husband Yakov so much with his knowledge that the history professor personally granted him entrance into the university – and to Yakov’s particular department. Since then, it has been Yuri living on his own terms, accompanied only by even more piles of books as he digests facts that may never prove useful.

On this day, he leaves plenty of food for Potya before visiting the library’s geography section instead, diving into any records of Zhetysu within its collections. Steadily, a mountain of documents and texts begin to collect upon his usual desk, its height likely rivaling the elevations of Zhetysu itself. With tenderness, Yuri glides fingertips over the inked illustrations that depict every scenic angle and every existing creature. The more he memorizes, the more his imagination steers its own course, allowing him to envision everything in abundant, colorful realism.

He also fathoms that four letters have now held more intimate conversation than all his other efforts in the last six years.

 

_Greetings Otabek,_

_I have indeed been to Almaty, but I was quite young and do not remember much of it. It would be grand if you could guide me to both sites within the same voyage. As you can imagine, I have been confined to Moscow for too long, and perhaps my heart is also thirsting for some adventure._

_I already decipher from your letters that you embrace your current duties. Though I love history to the utmost, I am afraid I lack direction as to my own future plans – for teaching has no permanence whatsoever in it. I hope to employ my knowledge in other significant ways, but my foresight remains stunted at best._

 

Yuri’s quill pauses, for a stark, new vision of himself suddenly emerges from the depths, materializing detail by detail through the inked tendrils of his own handwriting.

 

_Perhaps I should come see what you do, and attempt it for myself?_

_I jest._

_Regards,  
Yuri_

When he concludes the letter, Yuri notices that they had not discussed the pendant at all.

\--

**September 12 th, 1811**

_Dear Yuri,_

_Do let me know when your next leave might be. I will schedule accordingly so I can show you Kazakhstan in all its glory. My parents would also be most thrilled to have you as a guest in our family home. Though they have aged, their spirits remain youthful, and they have always been hospitable to those I deem friends._

_You are also more than welcome to join our excavations here around Kiev. Though I must warn you – such a life is quite different from that of an academic’s._

_I mean no offense, of course. You are likely as apt with a shovel as you are with a book._  
  
Otabek

Yuri’s face flushes at the sight of “friends,” a moniker he seldom genuinely addresses others with. Though he had already regarded Otabek as closer than acquaintance, despite never having seen him, this written acknowledgement of their relation feels almost indulgent.

 _Is this wise?_ He ponders upon the rather bold invitations the Kazakh had extended. Though the dull heartaches from several letters past no longer transpire, his instincts preserve their defensive stance against any suggestions toward further intimacy. And yet, as always, there exists such earnestness in Otabek’s prose that Yuri finds little reason to doubt for too long. Each word calls out to him with something far more profound than mere temptation – they seem to motivate and transform his conscience, eliminating the history written by self-doubts that have marred his potential.

With one hand caressing Potya’s furred spine, he decides to begin his response with a gentler salutation that mirrors his counterpart’s.

 

_Dear Otabek,_

_I wish I could take leave sooner, but even through the new year I am afraid I must remain here in Moscow for research. Unfortunately, that is the only extended time I have available for my own studies, as all the other students will be away and no longer serve as distraction. As such, I imagine the most likely date for this Kazakhstan journey will be no sooner than summertime. In the end, perhaps that is still the more ideal climate for us._

_Are you implying that I would not be accustomed to a less “proper” lifestyle? I may not have the strength to dig for long or move much soil, but if there is potential to recover anything of even minimal historical significance, my mind will stretch my body to its limits._

_Many have underestimated me in the past, but I live to prove them wrong._

_Regards,  
Yuri_

\--

**October 8 th, 1811**

_Dear Yuri,_

_Let us pledge for next summer, then. The climate will be kind indeed._

_Please forgive my indiscretion, as I did not mean to belittle your character. As always, it warms me to know that we retain the same fervor for this subject. So few appreciate the stories that have come before us and still lie ahead, but to me these tales and objects - even something as arbitrary as a cat-shaped pendant - outline who all of us are today._

_I have just noticed that this will mark our fifth exchange of letters, and I hope you have not merely felt obligated to respond. I am happy to leave you to your work and studies in case this serves no more than a distraction. I was only pleased to find someone whom I did not see every day, yet still shared my pursuits. Conversing with you through writing has been refreshing and delightful._

_Well, refreshing with the caveat of slight frustration, as some days I wish for us to converse face-to-face with immediacy, rather than wait a month in between each message._

_I look forward to summer._  
  
_Otabek_

The letters are always comprised of soothing speech, so rife with kindness that Yuri inadvertently reads them over and over again – not just the latest one he receives, but also all the ones before it. They are the remedy to the formal terms that inundate his textbooks, positioned rigidly in columns that seem to constrict him in the same manner. On the contrary, Otabek’s scripts are full of visual autonomy, dark ink flourishing at will to form each written symbol and accidental spots staining random positions – even though each line still proves perfectly horizontal in the end. They appear to reflect the unspoken elements of the Kazakh’s spirit - one that values freedom while still maintaining decorum.

Concentrating in his classes proves more and more of a challenge, for Yuri’s mind constantly drifts into vivid daydreams, each illustrating fables about Otabek’s life from the few facts that he has gathered. In such musings, Otabek is an explorer, an obedient son, a fairytale hero, a poet – or perhaps some semblance of all of them is true.

Yuri wonders what roles he would play in each scenario.

 

_Dear Otabek,_

_Do not ever think that you have inconvenienced me, as receiving your correspondences is now a highlight in my routine. In fact, I always respond the very same day I receive them. I share your frustrations, of course, but waiting for your letters these past few months has actually trained my patience – something I had very little of, mind you. Even Mila has commented on how much more of her antics I am able to endure now._

_History certainly shapes humanity in endless ways, like spirals of time that entangle us within its drag and fascinate us with its mysteries forevermore. I continue to study the pendant you sent – it is no doubt much more ancient than Rurik times, and I cannot stop wondering how the Prince came upon it, as well as all the reasons he treasured it. But even if those answers remain unknown, I am gradually beginning to understand his sentiments. Just as our letters began unexpectedly, I now find myself wanting to cherish each one I receive._

_Autumn is upon us, and despite every new leaf I witness turning yellow on my morning walks, I no longer dread the imminent winter. Rather, I recall fondly that it is yet another moment closer to summer._

_Regards,  
Yuri_

\--

**November 17 th, 1811**

_Dear Yuri,_

_Your words bring me much joy. Frankly, I cherish your letters just the same, for they are now part of ~~our~~ my history._

_From the painstaking manner with which the pendant was buried, both Phichit and I speculate that it was a gift from a beloved of the Prince, rather than something he purchased or acquired by diplomatic means. I do wish we knew the entire chronicle behind its existence, but in the end, such unknowns are no doubt why you and I exist – for history will always need its investigators._

_When we meet, let us discuss all the other ancient mysteries we might like to solve together._

_My team has been working near a forest, so I am also watching the leaves here as the days pass. Do stay warm when the snow descends._

_Otabek_

Yuri stares at the amended “our” and “beloved” for far longer than he wants to admit.

He calls for Potya only after an unknown amount of time has passed. When the suspicious cat approaches, he captures it quickly and indulges in the warmth of its fur while his heart pounds, each beat deafening enough to overwhelm any mews of protest.

_Dear Otabek,_

_You needed not remove the “our,” for it is the truth, after all. What is the point of history if it is not shared with others?_

_I know I will have much that I would like to discuss with you. Perhaps, I will finally be able to find direction for my own future through those conversations._

_That is my personal hope, at least._

_This may prove too forward an ask, Otabek, but would you satisfy one of my lingering curiosities this time? I have wondered as to what you look like, as I desire to form a proper mental image for myself._

_You can describe through words, of course._

_Or whatever you deem appropriate._

_Regards,  
Yuri_

\--

**December 16 th, 1811 **

_Dear Yuri,_

_Is this satisfactory? Phichit sketched it at my request (I believe I mentioned this talent of his before). In my humble opinion, it is fairly accurate._

_I am uncertain as to how you pictured me all this time, but I hope this does not veer too far from your expectations._

_Otabek_

The envelope Yuri receives proves thicker than usual this month, for an additional piece of parchment is carefully tucked within. Once removed, each unfolding reveals streaks of charcoal dust in varying thickness, joining together to create outlines that culminate into a seated human form.

Yuri’s heart no longer beats nor pounds – it thunders.

All the cells within his body feel drawn to this rough depiction of Otabek, fully rugged and donning work clothes that rest somewhat loosely over his figure. Despite the dirty gloves wrapped around his hands and the smudges of grime across his cheeks, his hair appears well-groomed, as if it could weather even the worst circumstances. Beneath the pair of thick brows, obsidian eyes exude sheer magnetism, attracting all who come across them before turning the observer as stationary as stone.

Everything about him is handsome and mysterious, shrouded in dark tints contrary to Yuri’s own light features. And yet, there are no hints of gloom even within such obscurity, for a tight-lipped yet warm smile remains the focal point of the entire portrait. The expression is sincere to the core, reflecting the same authenticity that his many written words had already conveyed.

Yuri commits an entire day to memorizing every placement of charcoal dust, as if Otabek himself were an entirely new language that he must become fluent in.

The moment he understands enough is also when he is finally able to pick up a quill again.

 

_Dear Otabek,_

_Pray tell, for how long did you remain still for that portrait? I hope your limbs were not lifeless by the end._

_In some ways you are exactly as I had imagined – but in others, entirely different. I had actually guessed that your hair would be as dark as the night, but its style is far more intriguing than my mind could possibly conjure up. It was easy to imagine your build as well, considering your taxing line of work. What I expected the least, perhaps, is your pleasant countenance. Then again, you do seem to possess a gentle soul, and this image serves an accurate reflection._

_I hope that did not sound too odd._

_Here in Moscow, I am afraid no one close to me - Mila least of all - possesses Phichit’s talents, so I must describe myself with words, even if they are lacking compared to such a detailed depiction of you._

_I have never attempted this before, might I add._

_My hair is ice blond and falls slightly past my shoulders. I prefer it long because then I can braid it however I wish. My complexion proves quite pale, not much darker than my hair on most days. As a result, sunlight has always been my worst enemy…_

_Most say my eyes shift in hue in accordance with my mood – they are light green usually, but they darken easily whenever I am irritated. If I feel joyful, apparently they turn aquamarine. I have never paid attention, however._

_My eyesight has deteriorated somewhat after many years of perusing history texts, so I must wear gold-rimmed spectacles that likely age me 10 years or so. Such a look is not my preference, but I am left with little choice._

_Mila asserts that I have quite a “slender” build, and as I am often dressed in darker hues, the colors lend themselves to enhance such an appearance. As you know, I do not believe myself frail by any means, but perhaps all the underestimation by others throughout my life stems from this false view._

_I wish to say more, but portraying myself feels far too unusual and admittedly uncomfortable…possibly far more uncomfortable than your portrait session._

_I hope that was sufficient for now._

_Regards,  
Yuri_

\--

**February 15 th, 1812**

A snow-ridden January leaves behind an alabaster Moscow, devoid of warmth and any signs of Otabek’s response. Yuri finds himself propped against the library’s window sills more often than necessary, anxious eyes gaping in the direction of Kiev and relaying unspoken questions of the Kazakh’s apparent silence. With each ensuing day, his solitary universe diminishes in vigor, fading into bleakness as desolate as the university grounds.

 _Had my words been too forward?_ He attempts to recall every phrase he had written in order to suppress any lingering doubts. _Did he expect me to look different?_

Just as such groundless fears accumulate to an almost unbearable level, his salvation finally arrives.

“Please accept my apologies, sir. This…should have been delivered to you weeks ago.” The young carrier mutters nervously, his reddened nose sniffling against the enduring freeze of mid-February. “The previous month’s blizzards took a devastating toll on our routes, but I assure you that we are recovering ground little by little...”

Yuri clutches the long-delayed envelope like a priceless relic, his mended heart overwhelmed by such delight that even the faintest vexation cannot persist.

“I see…” He only whispers. “…thank you for your efforts.”

 

_Dear Yuri,_

_Phichit did not even require two hours of my time. As with everything else he conducts here, he is both diligent and efficient._

_Your words actually painted quite the clear artwork in my mind. Strange as it may sound, I am now fairly convinced that I have seen some form of you in my dreams - not just recently, but for many, many years. My actual memories are vague at best, but my conscience recognizes your description from deep within. It feels both so familiar yet so distant…as if you have actually stood in front of me countless times, yet I always fail to reach you._

_In my recollections, you are as striking as your letter describes._

_I hope this time I did not sound too odd. If I recall anything further, I shall enlighten you when we meet._

_Happy New Year as well, Yuri. Only a few more months until summer._

_Love,  
Otabek_

“Love.”

Yuri’s fingertips meander over the profound word time and again, its unexpected presence so staggering that he no longer fathoms where his universe begins or ends. Such an innocent quartet of letterings had mercilessly consumed him, driving his feeble mind towards both reveries and qualms - two opposing sides, struggling to decipher the endearment’s subliminal intentions.

Feigning all facets of composure, he writes steady words with an unsteady hand.

 

_Dear Otabek,_

_I am afraid your previous letter did not reach me until today – the courier service claimed that the blizzards here have wreaked havoc upon all mailing and trading routes. With that said, I felt much jubilation as I finally read your words again._

_I recall nearly no dreams at all in my lifetime, outside of spontaneous mirages that seem to contain resonances of my name. But if you have indeed seen me within yours, perhaps our paths were meant to intertwine. Mila has always believed in a greater power, constantly steering the wheels of fate despite every destination boasting nothing other than foregone conclusions. As such, I consider very few things to be genuine coincidences._

_Had you not discovered the pendant, I would not have gained your friendship through these letters. Whether that was preordained or coincidence, I thoroughly believe that our future destinations number far more than a single endpoint. Kazakhstan may very well serve as only the first stop in our joint journey, since I do wish for many more beyond all the horizons we can observe._

_Of course, it is perfectly understandable if you do not share such a desire._

_Happy New Year, Otabek._

He halts just prior to his signature, thoughts afflicted by the plague of uncertainty. “ _Love” - shall I echo it?_

Dark liquid eventually seeps, contouring a graceful motif of his devotion.

 

_Yours,  
Yuri_

\--

**March 19 th, 1812**

_Dear Yuri,_

_I do. I yearn for the same journeys as you._

_As I mentioned months ago, I have always desired grand adventures. But up until now, all such quests have been ones of solitude. More often than not, I find myself wondering whether I must resort to this fate for eternity._

_But if you would like to accompany me, even for a brief time, it would be my greatest privilege._

_Yuri, there is one more thing I must inform you of._

_A few days ago, I was informed that I might depart this site much sooner than scheduled. Funding is running low at the moment due to all the diplomatic uncertainties with Napoleon Bonaparte and the French. As a result, we have already excavated as many locations as possible with our available resources._

_Yuri, I can practically count the number of days left._

_These letters have served their purpose dutifully, but I still feel that far too much time passes in between. Like you, I found myself quite distressed when no word arrived from you in January._

_~~Shall I vis~~ Perhaps a meeting in spring can even precede our summer? ~~~~_

_Love,  
Otabek_

In recent weeks, Yuri scrutinizes himself more thoroughly in front of any mirrors that cross his path, ensuring that no aspect of him - from hair to spectacles to attire - is in poor presentation. At first, the actions had felt instinctual, as if they had always been part of his meticulous routine. It is not until this letter, announcing the prospect of a premature meeting, when he recognizes why such habits had gradually became more pronounced.

The ongoing school term renders him still confined to the city, but rather than yielding to his previous, apprehensive self, Yuri registers the renewed poise in his appearance and the cleanliness of his room, both of which afford him a new measure of confidence.

 

_Dear Otabek,_

_Yes, do not wait until the next season. Come visit Moscow now - you can stay with me, of course._

_I must warn you, however, that I may prove far more offensive in person. In truth, these letters have done little to expose the cruder sides of myself. Do forgive my brashness in advance._

_~~I want to~~ I would like to meet you far sooner than summer. Very much._

Briefly, Yuri’s eyes skim past the “Love” in Otabek’s previous exchange. When he finally wrenches attention away, he punctuates his own signature with another imprint of affection.

_Yours,  
Yura_

\--

**April 9 th, 1812 **

_Yura (May I address you with this from now on?),_

_I have already made arrangements to visit. Give me another month or so, and I shall appear at the front gates of your University._

_I shall also keep this letter short, as we can now leave most things unspoken until our meeting._

_Perhaps I failed to mention this, but I have yet to visit Moscow._

_Yours,  
Beka (You may use this name for me in return)_

 

At the first word, he already imagines Otabek’s voice – perhaps the only trait Yuri’s persistent daydreams fail to agree on - addressing him by that fond epithet. His next reveries venture into elements yet unknown, from what clothing the Kazakh may don to what their first verbal greetings may consist of.

_Will we share bashful “Hello”s, a teasing “Finally,” a heartfelt “You are exactly as I pictured?”_

In Yuri’s boldest visions, all words are forsaken, replaced instead by a stirring embrace. The impending contact propels his mind into overdrive, foreseeing endless local excursions and mentally preparing schedules that constantly change whenever he recalls another locale Otabek must explore.

But no matter what scenarios infuse his mind now, his cheeks always burn with vigor, rising to the same degree as they likely often will when those fateful days come.

 

_Beka,_

_Yes, please call me by that name. It is reserved for those whom I have grown closest to._

_I would be most pleased to welcome you at last. If the city is a stranger to you, there is much you must be introduced to here. Other than the known sights, our university library holds one of the largest collections human eyes will ever behold. I imagine this is where most of our conversations will take place._

_Though my home is far from magnificent, I am the proud owner of a splendid kitten named Potya. She does not warm to others easily, but if you are as kind as you appear to be, I trust that she will not mind your presence._

_As for the rest - I shall show you rather than merely describe._

_Yours,  
Yura_

\--

All thirty days of May pass with no word from Kiev, eliciting distress that consumes Yuri at every waking moment. Valiant efforts at refocusing upon academics fail miserably, for he cannot peruse a single mention of history without a pained remembrance of onyx hair. His eyes frequently land upon the outer streets, their crossings bustling with more and more joyful faces as the weather improves. Within both physical and psychological walls, Yuri’s own expression stiffens to a sullen state, unmoving even as Mila and Potya attempt to serve as solaces.

It is not until the beginning of June, when the headlines of the daily Moscow papers begin to denounce suspicious military activities from the west, when Yuri finally understands Otabek’s silence.

\--

**July 2 nd, 1812**

_Yura,_

_I am afraid my visit will be delayed, after all. As you probably are aware by now, Napoleon has decided to invade our region, and the French’s clashes with the Cossacks have been endless here. We are in a protected area, but as soon as things calm, even Phichit has vowed to return home to escape the madness once and for all._

_I fear that Napoleon will continue to move east towards you, towards Moscow._

_Please stay safe. I shall be there with you at the soonest._

_Love,  
Beka_

Any jubilation towards the arrival of another letter proves momentary, for the words within provoke severe jolts against Yuri’s heart, brutally wounding its innermost caverns. He has studied far too many who resemble the French Emperor throughout human history, and there is little doubt as to the consequences of such merciless ambitions – the victims that lie in wake of such belligerence. The anxious tone that pervades Otabek’s writing implies that he may be aware of these outcomes as well, and Yuri’s grip upon the parchment trembles, tightens – nearly to the extent of tearing through its delicacy.

It now may be months, perhaps even years, before all their wishes can manifest.

 

_Beka,_

_It is alright._

_I wish Phichit the safest of travels. His talent will take him far no matter where he settles._

_I shall stay safe and alert here. Please do not worry. My concern remains with your well-being instead of my own._

_Yours,  
Yura_

 

Every night before he sleeps, he wonders if the sounds of cannon fire will awaken his slumber.

He wonders if warfare will eradicate his dreams.

\--

**September 5th, 1812**

Tension within Moscow’s perimeters rise with each new report, and the vivacious energy of the city dissolves at frightening speed, with even the scorching summer sun losing all luster. There is no new correspondence from Otabek – or from anyone outside a certain distance. As of weeks ago, all trade routes to the west and southwest had ceased activity, rendering countless supplies and communications undelivered, or simply lost.

Each ensuing hour resembles a countdown to oblivion, but Yuri grasps for those final threads of deliverance, indulging in the past – not the world’s but his own – in order to attain what little faith remains for the future. Over and over he revisits Otabek’s letters and the portrait, cherishing every detail and committing them to memory. On most days, he still enters the library, but only to reunite with those few books on Kazakhstan and the breathtaking illustrations that grace their pages. And whenever he manages to escape others’ probing eyes, he slips into the department’s clandestine storeroom to retrieve the pendant that had been at the crux of it all. Though never to be his actual possession, Yuri interprets its existence as how Otabek had theorized – like a gift from his beloved, passed on through the vast lands and seas; through the unpredictable course of history; through the infinite sands of time.

No matter the circumstance, he only clutches the artifact for a few minutes before returning it to its original place, concluding a wordless and prudent interaction. But inwardly, Yuri curses the fates with every modicum of his soul, decrying the notion that their chapter in this artifact’s saga may deteriorate into nothingness.

The night that the university administration orders preparations for a mass exodus, his quill releases its final beads of ink.

 

_My Dearest Beka,_

_As I write this, all the whispers around Moscow speculate that Napoleon's army has drawn near. At least, he likely has moved on from where you are. Our hope is that the Russian forces can halt his advance in Borodino, and if they disturb his retreat in the process, he also will not return to your region._

_Mila and I are collecting our belongings and preparing for long-term shelter, in case of a siege, or worse._

_On occasion, I recall how short some of my letters to you had been, and I suffer tremendous remorse at how I may have taken our time together for granted. Too often do I forget that our lives are merely split seconds within the timeline of history, the vastness of which we can never truly comprehend._

_Farewell for now, Beka. ~~I wish we~~ I still hope to meet you after all this passes. You must know how fervently I continue to long for the mountains of Zhetysu, for the spoken conversations we had planned, for our future travels together…_

_~~I~~ _

_Yours, and with all my love,  
Yura_

\--

**October 30th, 1812**

Whispers of horror travel from caravan to caravan, infiltrating even the most barren of paths across the Siberian terrains. The dialogues speak of a savage firestorm, one that ignited the night skies and engulfed a grand metropolis in the midst of September. At every direction, the routes are overwhelmed with those seeking refuge, their livelihoods robbed by conflict and flame.

Past the sorrowful crowds, a young man emerges on the horizon and advances in the opposite direction, each of his breaths heavy from carrying a substantial load and enduring weeks’ worth of footsteps. From head to toe, his tanned skin is stained by traces of ground soil, marking pitiless reminders of his strenuous journey.

 _I’m almost there, Yura._ He strains the mantra he had been reciting for far too many hours.

On this day, he finally reaches the western boundary of Moscow.

The French Army had departed only days before, leaving devastation of infinite magnitude behind. The sight that greets his eyes is nothing short of apocalyptic – a once spirited cityscape reduced to ash and rubble, where buildings collapse upon their own foundations, and only soaring plumes of smoke represent all that had vanished.

He dashes down grassless hills and through ruined street blocks, inhaling the ghastly smells of lost dwellings and god knows what else. The few humans whom he encounters resemble wraiths, barely reacting as they salvage any means from the destruction. Whenever he requests direction for the university, the responses always begin with fearful, widened eyes before a finger points him toward the proper course.

Even as he chases the correct paths, utter disorientation torments his mind, and what hope had remained of a joyous union fades with each passing second. As the final turn transpires, his last footsteps approach a scene contrary to all he had dreamed of – not a paradise but a paradise lost, never to be rediscovered again.

His hands tremble as they grip what remains of the university gate’s damaged fencing, the ashes upon which immediately stain his palms in black. Beyond the debilitated barrier, the neoclassical architecture that had been the pride of the city now only exists through dirt and piles of shapeless stone, eerily reminiscent of the countless excavation sites that had once been part of his journeys.

Fear clinches his conscience, bestowing only a singular thought.

_Please. Please be alright…_

Countless reiterations of the phrase riddle his mind for what seems like hours, uninterrupted until a sudden noise sounds around his feet. When his gaze lowers, it beholds the bewildering spectacle of a Himalayan cat, circling the ground before nuzzling his ankles.

There is a sudden gasp behind where he stands, and he breaks from his stationary state to turn around. Within his new peripheral is a crimson-haired young woman a few steps away, both hands covering her mouth in the most flabbergasted manner.

"Oh, Gods. You're _him_...aren't you?" The redhead breathes through her closed fingers, absolute shock permeating every word. "You're _Otabek_. I recognize you…from your friend Phichit’s artwork."

"…Mila?" Otabek slowly states the only name that surfaces in his mind.

"Yes, that is me." She moves cautiously towards him, her azure irises racing up and down as if she were scrutinizing a ghost. "You actually _made_ it – I…I _cannot_ believe it. I have been coming back every day to wait here...because Yuri said you would surely come. He insisted that you would keep your word."

The mere mention of Yuri’s name rejuvenates him from deep within, and the Kazakh nearly jumps from the improved charge of strength. Both hands fly upward to gently grasp the approaching Mila’s shoulders, and words rush out of his mouth, the syllables just short of possessing a demanding tone.

"Yes, _yes_. I wanted to keep my promise to him, even if the city were devastated by assault and left little means for me to reach it." The corners of his mouth lift enough to form a relieved smile. "Whe...where is he, Mila?"

Up close, however, he finally observes the young woman’s eyes in full detail, bearing hues as blue as an ocean - and just as occupied by glistening liquid.

“Mila. _No_. _Please_.”

His arms drop unceremoniously, weighted down by the same heaviness that abruptly invades his entire being.

“We thought it would just be an ordinary invasion attempt, that we would have sufficient time to prepare.” Mila’s stare also falls to the ground, her voice waning into a quivering stream of whispers. "Yet the fire...it came upon the city – upon us – with _so_ little warning. We were supposed to depart the city soon after we received word of the loss at Borodino. But before we could, the French forces already arrived, and the first parts of Moscow went alight…”

 _My Dearest Yura,_ Somehow, Otabek initiates a new composition through a mind clouded by mounting grief.

“Otabek…” Tears drift down her cheeks, forming tributaries inundated with regret. “I...I am afraid Yuri could not escape it.”

_It seems that our history must conclude, terminated by selfish acts of the powerful._

“The flames reached the University very early on, and they ignited much of the library building’s rear façade before we even noticed. Most of our colleagues and students had already gone, but Yuri was still upstairs on the third level, tossing out as many important history books and documents as he could salvage out the window. I was collecting everything down below, and when Yuri went back for more this one time, he just…”

_Even to the end, you sacrificed so much for all that you had embraced._

“…his silhouette never returned to the window again, Otabek…” Mila chokes out a series of fleeting sobs. “And the building, it collapsed not long after…I only remember myself fainting…”

_Yet I can only remain here, mourning that both our paths must continue in solitude._

“I’m so sorry, Otabek, I don’t know why all this happened---”

_I wish you the greatest peace, for eternity._

“It is alright.” Unearthing his own solace through those last thoughts, Otabek extends his limbs again, this time enveloping the inconsolable young woman within a comforting embrace. “We both know very well that history has always been full of enigmas and unexpected twists. Some of them…must take the form of tragedies, cruel beyond belief...”

“In recent months, Yuri always spoke of a future traveling with you.” Mila cries admissions against his shoulder with a muffled voice. “He foresaw himself doing that for many years to come…”

In that moment, the reality of a bygone promise shatters Otabek to the core, and it takes all his endurance to not crumple like the structures of Moscow had done. So many dreams they had divulged to one another, each imbued into a lifetime of escapades that freed them from every burden. And yet, there will no longer be such voyages or even the idea of them, for the callousness of time had taken all their ambitions hostage, never to be released.

“As did I.” He can only whisper, a frail disclosure sheltering an unfathomable brokenness.

They stand still for a few more moments, braving their respective sorrows as Potya somberly watches them from beneath. When they separate a few minutes later, Mila sniffles before reaching into the folds of her dress, eventually retrieving a package bundled in cloth.

“He entrusted these to me when we first prepared to leave Moscow. I received the last one on his behalf, as it only arrived here a few days ago…long delayed.”

Though concealed, Otabek knows that he does not require further explanation as to the contents. With both hands, he takes hold of all the letters that he had written over the previous year, noting mentally to preserve them alongside all the well-read parchments in his own possession, now merely agonizing reminders of the past.

“There is one more thing – one of the first things he threw down to me during the fire.” Mila reveals a smaller object and removes its few layers of covering, unveiling the pendant resting securely within. “You should know…Yuri had kept it close to him this entire time.”

Another series of sharp aches ravage Otabek’s chest cavity. As he observes the intricate carvings upon the artifact, it feels as if a dull blade is slowly, excruciatingly engraving identical patterns upon his heart.

“May I keep it for now?” He requests with a pained voice. “I will return it to the city…when it is rebuilt.”

“Of course.” Mila nods rapidly. “I think it belongs to the two of you, really.”

Closing his eyes, Otabek gently touches both lips to the maple wood, savoring its existence as a permanent link for this tragic part in his story. With melancholic fondness, he envisions Yuri just as the young Russian had described himself - grinning widely against the Zhetysu sunrise, his braided blond hair floating freely behind as they ride stallions together across the greenest of plains. It is an unadulterated apparition - one that shall never come to pass and yet still feel so tangible, as if another lifetime may afford them this very destiny.

Within his hands, his final, unread letter dwells.

_Yura,_

_My wish is for you to not receive this at all, as that means you have already departed Moscow._

_Nevertheless, I must send forth the warning that Napoleon marches towards the city at alarming speed. I beg of you and everyone at the university to leave at the earliest._

_We have our time in Kazakhstan to look forward to. So, so much time, Yura. So much awaits our exploration and discovery._

_Please make your escape, so we can write our history together still._

_~~I~~ _

_With all my love,  
Beka_

[Symphony No. 9 – End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though it was not obvious from the beginning, this chapter leads up to the devastating Fire of Moscow in 1812 that resulted from Napoleon’s invasion - an event that practically leveled the entire city. Moscow State University was indeed destroyed during the disaster and eventually reconstructed a few years later.
> 
> Coincidentally, Beethoven wrote Symphony No. 9 in 1824, around the same era as this incident. As mentioned prior to the chapter, I actually listened to Movement 3: Adagio Molto e Cantabile as inspiration for the majority of the letter exchanges, while Otabek’s actual free skate performance piece, the Symphony’s Movement 2: Scherzo (Advent), is more relevant to the latter, more tragic parts of the story. And of course, Otabek’s monologue during his FS (Speaking of discovery, courage, and the like) also provided some influence for this chapter’s theme.
> 
> Three down, one more to go! Thank you kindly for following along – I hope you have enjoyed this enough to leave a response :) You can also contact me on [Tumblr](http://fuku-shuu.tumblr.com)!


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